WYCOwild trout, wild times.

The Legend of Nine-Toe and Half-Foot

For years I told myself and many of the countless other fishermen I encountered that I wasn’t allowed to go out west. I rationalized that Big Sky Country would forever change me – the sheer wilderness triggering an inherent response from my soul against the civilized world that would render me more useless than I already am without a fly rod in my hand. So I stayed away. But today I grow my horns and take that leap of faith into a world I have only been able to dream about for the past 20 years. I probably won’t be the same after this. Whatever comes, will inevitably come. All you can pray for are tight knots, fair weather, and a strong resolve. But in these moments of anxious penning that lead up to the greatest fishing adventure of my life – I can honestly say I am ready. Bring it on. Hype meets hype.

I wrote the above snippet before I embarked on the journey – leaving the word doc open on my screen for when I got home to serve as a reminder of who I was prior to heading out west for the first time.

It was cool to see how much changed in four days - how the perception of a fish, sport, and region pulled a Boobie Miles and radically shifted from “over-hyped” to “the hype is real”.

But it wasn’t easy.

Good god no.

Hype meets hype might be the best way to define this trip.

First time out west.

Four days of nothing but letting loose in the pursuit of the fish you see when you close your eyes at night.

Four storied fisheries that amount to the stuff of fairy tails for us east coast guys.

Two rugged, western states that represent the wilderness I have sought in the Virginia highlands and Western MD for so many years.

Add all that up with the perfect companion for such a journey – Brogan “Half-Foot” Jayne- and suddenly this becomes something bigger than your casual annual fishing trip.

It becomes a pilgrimage.

A mission to seek something bigger than yourself – whether it be serenity, instagrammed trophy shots, or simply standing in a river waving a silly little stick at big fish who don’t care to eat much of anything… in a place with zero cell service.

Knowing this all now, it’s funny trying to place myself on Thursday evening and even weirder trying to place myself now. The west has dug its claws into me for good.

Yet there I was at the Denver airport on Thursday evening – waiting on Brogan’s flight to arrive from Atlanta.

The rest of the night is fuzzy. But we made the 5.5hr drive from Denver to Alcova, WY in the middle of the night and arrived at The Mile in a shell-shocked state of “we really made it, man.”

There were no words to describe that sunrise.

Debating whether or not it was worth the suicide trip through the middle of the Rockies in the dead of night was a moot point at the time.

In the moment – 100% worth it. Necessary. NEEDED TO HAPPEN.

In hindsight – probably not worth it.

But as the sun rose behind us on that first morning, Brogan running on zero sleep, a handful of five hour energies, and the promise of a mystic fish – I felt a sense of belonging and adventure in a place I was literally treading in for the first time.

The river was calling us.

The Mile

The first stop on our journey was the Miracle Mile –a stretch of river on the North Platte known for GIANT browns and GIANT rainbows that follow the GIANT browns to eat their TINY eggs every November.

If you follow Catfishric on Instagram – you know all about those GIANT browns in Wyoming.

Those fish haunt my dreams.

They were all I could think about in the weeks leading up to the trip.

Similar to the Pulaski adventure last year – I spent my time filling the meat locker with every streamer pattern I could think of. Planning in advance for this fishery – I wanted nothing more than to throw a sinking line and streamer get up to a GIANT brown. I wanted to stick the fish that goes bump in the night and see my foot long articulated fly dangle from the corner of its massive kype jaw. But alas – the fish gods can be cruel sometimes.

Like when they forget to remind you that your reel for your 7wt with the sinking line is currently on your 6wt rod with a floating line…and that 6wt is in the truck of your car…in a different rod tube than the one you packed…about 10,000 miles away.

Realizing this grave mistake while rigging up in the wee hours of Friday morning – I was in a state of disbelief. HOW COULD YOU FORGET THE REEL MAN!!?! But luckily I had my 5wt reel for nymphing and Brogan had an extra reel lined up with a 6wt sinking line for streamers. Under-loading a 7wt rod with a 6wt sink line doesn’t faze me at all. Seems easier to cast to be honest – so disaster was averted and my fantasy of throwing meat to GIANT browns was back on track.

Exploring this stretch of river for a few minutes – we decided to fish a wide, deep run that was sure to hold a few big fish. We spent the better part of a couple hours fishing that stretch hard. Brogan, the nymph master he is - stuck a few, small ones. Me, the streamer dreamer I am - swung meat hard to nothing but current. Due to the lack of action – we decided to go explore somewhere else.

We packed up the truck and decided to fish below the dam at the head of The Mile. This steep, epic canyon with its murky water, mean flows, and desolate landscape screamed GIANT trout. As we made our way down the cliff to the rocky bank – there was a sense of optimism between us that something cool was going to happen.

It had to.

Almost immediately, Brogan hooked into a better fish, but as was the theme of the morning it evaded the net. After another couple hours – The Mile had thwarted us again, albeit playing host to some of the most breathtaking water and landscape I’ve ever seen.

At this point it was close to 2pm and there were only a few hours of usable daylight left. To this point we had only brought a couple fish to the net. The initial sense of awe and wonderment was beginning to fade, twisting into an ugly “WTF is going on?” mentality as each cast came back empty. Bad thoughts started to creep into my head - maybe the hype wasn’t real…. Maybe the west was a glorified version of the east coast with finicky fish but just more of them…. Maybe I was a bad trout fisherman….

All possibilities.

But as we arrived at our next spot and Brogan began talking with a few local guys – it became clear that the fairy tail monsters we were chasing simply had not been written into the story yet. They hadn’t migrated that far up the river on their annual marathon to spawn. “Give it a week and they’ll be in here thick,” the stranger said.

Sweet, bro.

After driving through the heart of the night, through mountains, on little to no sleep, all for a shot at ONE fish - Brogan and I exchanged looks that can only be described as well that sucks.

With an hour or so of daylight left – we hit the bridge pool and drifted flies to fish that didn’t exist. Brogan stuck the best fish of the day - a gorgeous 16” brown – as night fell and we packed up the car to the tune of unmet expectations and a day spent in reckless pursuit of the unknown.

Plus we were really, really tired.

That night we stayed at the Sunset Inn in town, renting a camping cabin for $40. The sleepy fisherman’s inn is equipped with a motel, cabins (think mancave meets big tool shed), and a saloon with dynamite beer and bar grub. There were also feral cats.

Walking into the bar without waders on apparently wasn’t the cool thing to do. Opening the door and peering in – we found a couple dozen weary anglers still in full wading getup getting hammered after their respective days on the water. It was if we had stumbled into a place made for us – a sanctuary for fly fishermen.

Sitting in a corner table near the TV, we relaxed over a couple pitchers of local beers and football. We ordered up some apps - mozzarella sticks, and hot wings to be precise – and went over the events of the day. It wasn’t our first ass kicking. It was a pretty standard conversation for us actually- our trips tend to start out slow due to our DIY nature.

“I can’t believe the fish weren’t there, man.”

“I know.”

“They make it look so damn easy on the internet.”

“I know.”

“Want another beer?”

“How about 12.”

We were finishing up dinner when a man with an even redder and more surly face-hair get-up than mine started chatting with us. We told him of the slim pickings out there on The Mile. “You’ve got to put in your time, man – don’t be afraid to chuck the meat.” I told him I did and that the fish weren’t in there. “Well shit, man. You should check out The Reef then.” He then offered us a free guided trip in California sometime. Hope he remembers it.

After filling us in on some “nuggets” of truth – he kept using this term over and over again as he described about 50 techniques that would "slay"– we decided to spend the next day fishing Gray’s Reef. If it sucked – we’d head back to Colorado to night fish on the Frying Pan.

We were already in Wyoming though - what's the worst that could happen?

The Reef

Setting the alarms for 5:30am, we awoke in darkness on our second day in cowboy country. After eating a couple left over gas station sandwiches from the previous day’s ass kicking - we packed up the car, strung up the sticks, fended off the unwanted advances of a particularly affectionate feral cat (we named him Scrapple), and drove up the service road that leads to the dam at Gray’s Reef.

The jolt of anticipation that comes from knowing you’ll get to take a first cast of the day very shortly and at some point, might even hook into the first fish of the day, is a feeling you can’t really describe to anyone but another fisherman without getting weird looks.

But there is always a noticeable calm before the storm.

Driving the entire 5 minutes up the dirt road to Gray’s Reef from mancamp– the desolation of the wilderness encompassing us - Wiz Khalifa blasted from the Frontier’s speakers setting the tone for the morning. We were already rigged and wadered up when we got out of the car. It was one of those rare “Instant-Fisherman” moments (just add water for fun!) where all you had to do was grab your rod and get in the water.

Things seemed way too easy.

But it was inevitable that today was the day I was going to stick my first western pig, right? Get in on the action. Prove my mettle as a trout fisherman and return home with fish swagger in full check to annihilate my “inferior” local trout populations…right?

God, in retrospect, that is an insanely stupid mentality to have. At any time. In any place. It’s hard to ever enjoy fishing when you’re busy anticipating.

In that moment and throughout the morning – I should have tried to stay zen and take pleasure in where I was and what I was doing. Focusing on reading the water and enjoying the little things. But I was hell bent on pulling a Kelly Galloup and frustrated with the robust trout population and their inability to step in what I was dropping. Plus the wind was blowing 35mph+, I was fishless, out of cigarettes, and just took a weighted streamer to the back of the dome – sometimes its hard to stay positive.

Especially when your partner in crime is crushing fish and you’re without the slightest clue.

It was humbling.

I kept searching for answers – switching flies out from egg patterns and tiny midges to meaty streamers in a frantic attempt to connect with an unseen foe. But alas – the morning bite for me was a complete failure. I was tired, cold, and losing confidence along with energy. I began to be unappreciative of the moment. I fished like a lost pilgrim. No wonder the fish gods were not generous.

Looking back on it now – this fishery is incredible. Below the dam are some awesome pools and little pockets that hold some truly gargantuan fish. I should’ve kept my game face on. But damn – that streamer to the dome was the final straw.

Meeting up with Brogan midday – it was great to hear he was dialing in on the fish. San Juan Worms and egg patterns – pretty simple stuff. Just had to readjust the rig a little bit to get the presentation right. So when we grabbed a quick bite at the general store, chugged some coffee, and thawed a bit – I could feel my batteries recharge and I decided to go balls to the wall in pursuit of a fish. Any fish.

Time was of the essence.

Positioning ourselves below the dam on opposite banks that afternoon, Brogan and I made drift after drift. I’d look over and his rod would be bent, line taught, and a hearty smile on his face. There’d be some splashing, a net job, and a wave. Meanwhile, my indicator continued its best impressive impression of a small, unsinkable bubble for the first twenty minutes or so. Then it ticked slightly and the Hindenburg indicator plummeted to the stream bed.

Still sort-of remembering what it felt like to set on a fish, I lifted the rod tip and set into the thickest rainbow I’ve ever seen. A heavy fish. Swimming at me – I lost tension in the great fish but still managed to get a good look at him (probably in the 23-25” range). If I had stayed tight – he would’ve messed me up on 6x…it would’ve been really fun chasing him downstream. But that’s fishing. That could’ve happened anywhere. I guess that’s when it hit me…

Dude…you’re just fishing. Same thing, different place. Step it up.

Over the course of that afternoon, I’d hook into three more equally impressive rainbow trout, failing to land them all – a fantastic jump, bent out size 22 midge hook, and hesitant hook set the most likely culprits for the failed capture. Meanwhile, Brogan caught a dozen or so on the opposite bank.

Then it happened. With Brogan fishing way below me, I assumed a spot on the lower end of the dam pool. I tied on a few small bugs underneath a meaty nymph and was nearing the end of my drift. As I was preparing to cast, I lifted the rod tip, but it wouldn’t oblige. Then it started wiggling…and pulling…

Not messing around after the earlier heartbreaks in the day, I swiftly landed the 15” rainbow. Incredible colors. My 22 juju midge in the corner of the jaw. Sun setting behind me. Smiling and quickly unhooking the juvenile salmonoid, I gave the fish a quick kiss on the forehead and put it back in the stream.

The monkey was officially off the back.

Although it started in a very rough fashion for me – if you simply took the geography out of the equation, it was a great day where two friends could go out and fish hard on new water. Plain and simple.

As the sunlight died off, we dumped the waders in the parking lot and started packing up the truck for the next river. Just as we were about to leave, a van pulled up next to us. Out jumped a dozen or so folks of similar age and trout affliction. All Patagonia clad trout bums – who we aptly named the “Patagonia Pajama Party”- for showing up on the cusp of darkness in matching Patagonia waders and shell jackets.

They fished within 15 feet of each other too, headlights eerily cutting through the darkness of the dam pool like some weird hatch of giant lightning bugs.

From what we could tell, they never caught a fish – but like some secret, weird guardians of the dam (maybe they were trying to blow it up? #damnation) they manned their posts presumably until well after we were gone.

With only one fish in the net to Brogan’s 30 or so after two days, I was ready to roll out. Wyoming and its wonderful forsaken wilderness had left me hanging. Under Armour Barren camo and all.

Looking back now – I am incredibly lucky to have stood on such hallowed banks.

As we left Wyoming, a fresh moon reclaimed the landscape from the darkness – helping to quell the feelings associated with a world-class fish ass kicking. The dawn of a new day and new river fueled us southward to the promise of something better. Something different. But even with the anticipation of a new day and truly blank slate - there was one thing on our minds.

Redemption.

There is a certain mile that owes us a miracle.

Mighty, Mighty Mysis

After a couple frustratingly and relatively fishless days for me “roughing it” in Wyoming – we began the second leg of our trip heading back towards Denver.

Again, we left in darkness and continued our trend of fishing by day and driving by night.

The plan was to fish the Frying Pan River in Glenwood Springs and the Blue River in Silverthorne on consecutive days before flying out– both ribboned trout waters (I kept referring to both as the “Taylor River” throughout the trip…Brogan thought that was hilarious) and known for a particularly unique “hatch” of sorts.

Like most of Colorado’s famed trout waters, both the Frying Pan and Blue Rivers are tail waters- meaning their flow is regulated via dam where deep water from the reservoir above is pumped into the river below. Because of its deepwater origins, the water remains a source of consistent temperature and food - such as nymphs, smaller fish, and in our case, the mighty, mighty Mysis Shrimp.

These miraculous little buggers (image a white Crazy Charlie in sizes 20-24) provide a year round smorgasbord for the rainbow and brown trout that situate themselves below these flows. Because of the abundance of food – the fish are renowned for reaching epic proportions. Think 30” and 10lbs+.

Pigs.

Although looked down upon by some in the fishing community – I’d question any true fisherman and angler to pass up a shot at one of these fish. Outside of their robust nature – these fish feature unique coloring due to their diet and often exhibit the colors we’ve come to know through the works of Derek DeYong that now grace many a tee-shirt and cell phone cover throughout the trout bum community.

After being sort of skunked the first two days – albeit coming close to pay dirt on the latter – I was ready to take on a new landscape. The big, stained water of Wyoming was new ground.

As a veteran of the Shenandoah Valley, Western MD, and West Virginia trout scenes – I’m familiar with clear freestones and spring creeks. This is probably why the Savage has remained a fickle beast to me over the years while the North Branch and even Mossy –that fickle beast- has been rather accommodating. I feel comfortable on those streams. Same reason I fish Beaver Creek, MD over the Gunpowder even though its about 45 minutes closer to my digs any day.

The flows on these freestones and spring creeks are usually relatively clear and the water/stream bed easy to read of potential lies and obstructions. When the water is stained – you typically already know where fish are going to be at as they’re flushed out of their main haunts underneath the bank into “open water” (three-foot channel) and you can confidently chuck the meat knowing that something cool will eventually happen.

Staying the night at an Inn in Glenwood Springs, we grabbed some gas station food and beers to relax with after a long car ride. Our stay was relatively short and unmemorable, albeit extremely pleasant, and we left the Inn the next morning at the crack of dawn after consuming the hearty continental breakfast standards of black coffee, hardboiled eggs, oatmeal, and various breadstuffs.

After making a quick detour at the local fly shop to load up on mighty, mighty shrimp flies, we drove up the service road that leads to the dam and the infamous Toilet Bowl.

Driving in, the light fighting to make its way over the peaks above – the water was black and intimidating. That said, it already seemed drastically more welcoming.

Hell – for the first time in two days, I could actually see the bottom. Even better, I could SEE fish. Big ones.

It was great.

Gearing up and heading to the dam – we were disappointed to see two gentlemen already posted up on the spot we had traveled so far to fish. Half-Foot, being one of the more intelligent creatures I will probably ever encounter on the stream (think half man, half heron, half otter), kept one eye on the two anglers while pointing me in the direction of some good water downstream.

As I explored on my own, my indicator remained lifeless (albeit I did move a big brown) and after an hour or so – Brogan bolted to the dam to claim our spot. A few minutes later, I followed suit.

For an indicator fisherman – the Toilet Bowl is a goddamn nightmare. It flows like you think it sounds…where did you think it got its name?

Essentially standing directly below the dam outflow on a rocky outcrop that serves as a fisherman’s sanctuary and current break – the water rushes from the dam around the point directly into a deep, seemingly endless pool where it then flows for about 40 yards directly into riprap before making a hearty right turn and continuing its way downstream.

There are literally more fish here than I have ever seen in my life. Brogan reminded me of this fact and the whole indicator thing after only a few weird, useless drifts on my part.

In his first five casts, Brogan hooked into four fish. He broke off two that he was excited about. That should say everything you need to know.

Over the next half hour, he would hook into fish after fish – while my bobber remained lifeless. It was like I was cursed – or being challenged – by some unseen force.

The Fish Gods.

Drastic measures were needed, so admitting my pilgrim status to the fish gods and all witnesses - I pulled my friend aside and asked him to coach me up a bit on the elementary aspects of tight line nymphing.

After ditching the bobber and adding a few more hunks of split shot, Brogan set me up in the honey hole.

“It’s all about getting the perfect drift.”

“How do I get a perfect drift?” I asked – thinking for the past two years I was making flawless drifts….and admitting my pilgrimage… I listened on every word.

“Cast ahead into the current. Try to stay directly on top of your line. Follow it with your rod tip, again staying on top of it vertically. When your flies start sinking, lower the rod tip while remembering to stay directly on top of your flies. It’ll feel just like a bass bite….”

But before Brogan could finish his tutorial – I was already bit.

It was an ironic moment considering that almost two years to the day, Brogan had taught me to fish with an indicator and nymphs on the Raven’s Fork in Cherokee, NC. What was downright deafening was that during Brogan’s first tutorial then – I also hooked a fish on the first drift, mid-lesson.

Hilarious how life works sometimes.

From there on out the afternoon was pure chaos. Brogan out-fished me 4:1 as we went on to have an explosive 100 fish day. We didn’t land the MONSTER – but Brogan brought a beautiful 22” bow to the net and I added in two, 20” browns –one more colored up than the next.

As is the tradition of this blog – we won’t bore you with superfluous details about fights….unless something really weird or cool happens. Like a yeti attack…or Miley Cyrus pulling a bald eagle and swooping down from a wrecking ball to steal your catch…

Epic.

Needless to say my first day in Colorado was a special one – great weather, beautiful fish, and good people. Can’t ask for anything more than that.

That said, I am now completely out of shrimp flies.

As we hit the road with the sun now well behind the canyon walls, all we could do was smile. We had accomplished what we came for and just what both of us needed – one epic fucking day of fishing.

With one day now left in the adventure, the smell of fish slime dating my flannel sleeves as we sat down to consume yet another order of mozzarella sticks and hot wings over cold mountain beers, I couldn’t help but feel that same sense of wonderment I felt in Cherokee a few years ago.

Similar to that day, a relatively little world got mighty big in a hurry. When I got home from that trip I researched Virginia, Maryland, and West Virginia trout water. Taking time off of my home waters on the Tidal Potomac for a crash course in local trout water.

I fished Mossy Creek, both Beaver Creeks, Passage, and Accotink that year. I learned a lot – fishing whenever I could and pushing the boundaries of a “Night Shift” to the brink.

*We originally were off until 5:00pm, those days, so I’d hit the water at first light and speed back at 3pm to beat DC rush hour traffic. When the rules changed to an 8am-9am-morning shift on top of the 5pm-midnight responsibilities, I had to cut my outings shorter and focus on mid-day opportunities…or go anyway and risk getting caught…totally worth it and luckily worked out most of the time. I had a cool boss. That said, I love my new job…we’re sort of encouraged to fish before work.

But back to the journey man.

Streams, which were easily accessible and completely nonexistent to me as a bass angler and saltwater junkie, were now my focus when not in the salt or pursuing stripers, snakeheads, fat bronzebacks, and big carp on the Potomac.

It was then, after the fourth hot wing, I knew this place - a canyon, some shrimp, and a Toilet Bowl - had changed me for good.

We paid the bill and the hit the road to Silverthorne – civilization and a return to regular life on the horizon.

But we didn’t think about that. There were trout and snow in the forecast.

Stay fly.

**Tight line nymphing is sweet. It’s already paid HUGE dividends in my game on the local trout scene where fish are pressured pretty hard. I recommend anyone who hasn’t already – to try an afternoon without the indicator and see what you can do. Just take Brogan’s advice…and read John Gierach’s essay on “Zen and the Art of Nymphing” in Trout Bum.**

The Storm

After spending the night in Silverthorne – we awoke to blue bird skies and a brisk wind cascading through the mountain valley. It didn’t take a meteorologist to know that snow was coming. It just took two east coast trout bums to underestimate it.

While habitually pushing our fishing excursions to the literal point of no return (or should I say…point of rebooking) – we planned to leave the Blue River around 1pm so that we would make our flights on time.

Similar to the Frying Pan, the Blue River is one of four tailwaters in the state of Colorado that plays host to the mighty, mighty Mysis shrimp. Like the Frying Pan, the fish on Blue get monstrous due to the constant influx of food. However, the trout on Blue are also notorious for being incredibly colored up. While finicky and educated, the deep, pink lateral stripes on these fish are often visible, allowing anglers to line up their drifts accordingly. Still, there are no guarantees.

After a day in which we had crushed fish on the Frying Pan confidence was at an all time high. As we left the parking lot to descend into town and the renowned Cutthroat Anglers fly shop, it dawned on me that I probably would not be back here for quite some time. In the back of my head, I knew this adventure would have to come to an end. They always do. It’s a shitty realization and even shittier part of life. It just goes to show that you’ve got to make the most of the current moment. You never know when or if there will be a next shot.

By the time we got to town the blue bird skies were gone. In there stead was a grey, low ceiling of clouds that expanded far past the outlying peaks of the Rockies. It being the last day, we talked some shop, picked up a few patterns and hit the water around 10am. It also being a Monday- Half-Foot had to work… so he gave me the lay down of the water and sent me on my way.

The snow started out innocent enough just as we got in the water. For the first time on the trip – I felt like I was fishing an east coast stream. Cold, crystal clear water and obvious holding water. Tiny bugs and 6x tippet. It didn’t take long to hook into a few micro trout and as I gained confidence, the fish slowly started upgrading in size. But as the fish upgraded, snow did the snow.

At the peak of blizzard I was fishing beneath a highway bridge. The run ran close to the bank and there was a good hole that dropped to about four feet. My drifts up to that point had been solid so I water hauled up into the head of the pool and watched the indicator cascade down towards me. It stopped midway through the pool and I lifted the rod tip to the tune of a long, silver flash.

The rainbow (probably having been caught before), a solid fish in the 21-23” class obediently swam to the net before coming to its senses and going bat shit crazy. It ran me down the run into my backing and across the river. It swam upstream. It jumped a few times. I got a bunch of great looks close to the net but in the end, it broke off.

When I got back in the car, I had to brush a few inches of snow off. From the look on my frozen face, Half-Foot could tell it was a decent fish.

While that fish – even in its Long Distance Release status - would’ve made an excellent cap to the trip, we ventured upstream to the Dam for one more shot. Time slowly ticking away.

Half-foot finished up a phone call while I went upstream to find a good run to end on. With the storm in all out blizzard mode, we decided we’d fish for 20 more minutes before calling it a trip.

Having not seen a fish yet, yet having heard about the luminescent qualities of these trout – my jaw almost dropped when I saw the fish sitting a few feet in front of me. It was one of those freak fish you hear about on the east coast – 28”, 10lbs+. Its flanks were a deep, dark red…yet somehow glowed against the stone bottom.

I made a cast to the head of the run, attempting to get my drift synched up. But the indicator stopped before the flies reached the massive fish and I lifted the rod tip. To my surprise a beautiful 18” wild brown came to the net. The monster fish vanished. But it didn’t matter. Hands numb, energy on zero, and holding one of the prettiest fish in my life – I knew I had come a long way in a short time.

Cherishing the release, I revived the fish a little longer than usual. Trout in hand, the snow blanketing the horizon - I allowed my hands to freeze in the icy tail water before the feisty, maroon fish kicked back to its spot in the run.

Brogan walked down a few minutes later. He got a few empty casts in before we officially called the trip.

As fate would have it – we barely got through the mountain roads to Denver. By the time we made it to the city limits, traffic was unbearable and to Mother Nature’s chagrin – we were forced to rebook our flights. Fishing had once again won out.

That night as we sat at the bar, scoffing down artisan pizza and craft beer in the warm sanctity of civilization – I couldn’t stop smiling…Two states…

Four rivers…

Four days…

Two states…

Four rivers…

Four days…

Two states…

Four rivers…

Four days…

It’s only been a few months since I made my last cast on the Blue River in Silvethorne.

Yet, I feel like I’m still there.

That a part of me is standing in that river with the snow falling around me, rod guides freezing up with each cast, and ice forming in my whiskers – all in pursuit of that one perfect moment.

I fear I will never entirely leave this place- even as I sit on my couch in Charm City writing up this story.

Not after this.

Not after what we saw and where we went. Not after the countless hours driven in darkness and days drenched in trout-drunken sunshine.

Because when I close my eyes now, it’s worse than before.

I see myself roll casting on the seam in a place that words fail to live up to.